


Ephemeris

by disalae



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, CW: death mention, Dunking, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Idiots Abound, Mild panic, Nightmares, Romantic Tension, Sexual Content, Tempering (Final Fantasy XIV), because harold they're lesbians, cw: blood, cw: tobacco use, cw: werlyt, everyone is bad at feelings, implied ishgardian sandwich is self care, let ryne panic a little, making up your own ast lore is self care, mild violence, pov: you're a miserable idiot, tempering headcanons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:54:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28494204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disalae/pseuds/disalae
Summary: Prompt & small fills collection for FFXIV.Last update: 1.21.21 - "Tempering"; f!wol/Estinien (nsfw)
Relationships: Alisaie Leveilleur & Warrior of Light, Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light, G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light, Lyna & Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Ryne | Minfilia & Warrior of Light, Warrior of Light/Estinien Wyrmblood, implied Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light/Estinien Wyrmblood
Comments: 13
Kudos: 27





	1. Table of Contents

Welcome! l am more or less working off of seaswolchallenge from January, which [you can find here](https://seaswolchallenge.tumblr.com/post/638302054350225408/hello-again-its-been-a-couple-of-months-but-i), though clearly I am not beholden to any sense of time or urgency. Sometimes ya just need a prompt. That said, I will use this for any other small prompt fills as well, should the occasion arise.

Works will include my warriors Orora Vadhas (Keeper of the Moon Miqo'te) and Rinn Guerrise (Wildwood Elezen) making a mess of things in their own respective and separate timelines.

I will add tags and characters/relationships and whatnot as I fill.

Table of Contents below, will update as I post.

  
☼-------------------☼

  1. Table Of Contents 
    * Introduction + Chapters
  2. Dawn ("G"; Gen) 
    * Named f!wol (Orora) and Lyna; beginning of 5.0 storyline. The hour is early, but the Crystarium is not quiet.
  3. You ("M"; F/M) 
    * Named f!wol (Rinn)/Aymeric, and /Estinien; post 3.x-ish. And now your secret is out even to you.
  4. Ferality ("T"; Gen) 
    * Named f!wol (Orora); 5.x. It’s been a while since she’s felt so beastly. She tries to recall if it’s a feeling she likes.
  5. Festival ("G"; Gen) 
    * Named f!wol (Orora) and Ryne; 5.4 Eden. The stillness of the dead air is a deafening distraction. But eventually, she remembers. 
  6. Awakening ("G"; F/M) 
    * Named f!wol (Orora)/G'raha; 5.3+. She already crossed one threshold unscathed. What’s another?
  7. Starlight ("G"; Gen) 
    * Named f!wol (Orora) & Alisaie, ft Alphinaud and G'raha; 5.3+. She knows Alisaie is just trying to rile her up. And it works, of course. Every bloody time.
  8. Reaper ("T"; Gen) 
    * Ambiguous f!wol; post 5.4 Werlyt. It is the fourth night in a row this has happened, and she still is not sure what she is reaching for.
  9. Tempering ("E"; F/M) 
    * Named f!wol (Rinn)/Estinien; implied f!wol/Estinien/Aymeric; post 5.2. Conversations are easier, when each can recognize when the other is lying to themselves.



  
☼-------------------☼

As always, thank you for reading!


	2. Prompt: Dawn (WoL & Lyna)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hour is early, but the Crystarium is not quiet.

The hour is early, but the Crystarium is not quiet.

Which makes sense, of course. After all, for many souls here, it will be the first sunrise of their lives.

“I admit I had not anticipated seeing  _ you  _ here,” someone pipes up from behind where Orora leans against the railing, and although she cannot see her, she recognizes the voice. “This is a common sight where you are from, is it not?”

“It is,” Orora concedes, looking back to see the Guard Captain, dressed in the Crystarium’s finest. Then again, she’s not certain she’s ever seen her dressed in anything but. “Even still, they’re beautiful. I’m sure you’ll think the same, even after you’ve seen a hundred.” 

Lyna walks to stand next to the Warrior, arms moving to rest on the railing in a similar fashion as she peers out at the purple sky, stars fading as light rises. 

“Of that I am not so certain,” Lyna counters with a sigh of — disappointment? Apprehension? Whatever it is, the candor of it surprises. “The return of the Light in any capacity is— ”

“It’s not the same,” Orora interrupts, so eager she is to correct her, to assuage this worry. “That is — well, I have not yet seen day on Norvrandt either, so I suppose I cannot be completely sure. But if it is anything like where I am from, I assure you, it is  _ nothing _ like that awful light. There will be no mistaking the day for it, I promise you. In fact, you will think it at times as beautiful as the night.” 

The Viis looks unconvinced.

"You’ll see." Orora shrugs. “And if it is truly not to your liking, well, night will come again soon enough then, won’t it?”

Lyna’s expression shifts; a gentle furrowing of her brow, a nearly imperceptible twitch of her nose. Then, it settles into a smile and she nods wordlessly in agreement before the pair look back towards the sky, silent, and watch. 

(Purple reddens like a blush, growing softer into tangerines, oranges, gold — then! Daylight breaks bright, like the clap of cymbals, edging against the horizon like a vein of gold struck at the seam before, like paint spilling, the sky fades — not into cursed, wicked white — but to endless blue; a sunlit sea.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little one to start. a Baby.
> 
> Also I barely remember the timeline and fine details of the MSQ so y'all will just have to bear with me through all of these rofl. If it's too far off base, just call it an AU.
> 
> Thank you for reading!!


	3. Prompt: You (WoL/Aymeric, Wol/Estinien) | NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now your secret is out even to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for alcohol use & non-explicit sexual content

Of all the accommodating places to lay your head in Ishgard, you came here. You came here, and pretended to not know why, and you drank, and you drank, and you threw enough coin at Gibrillont so that everyone around you could do the same.

And you waited.

And he came.

And now your secret is out even to you.

—

He closes the door with your body, back shoved hard against unfinished wood, and you hear the bar catcall as the sound echoes.

A flush burns up your neck; you retreated to the privacy of an inn room for a reason. “Godsdamnit, can we not alert the entire Holy See?”

A low, rumbling laugh against your throat is all the answer you get before he sets his teeth against you. His hands push up your blouse to pool under your breasts as drachen fingertips grasp at the newly bared flesh over your ribs, nails dragging hard enough to leave welts.

He is never gentle. At this point you’re not sure you would know what to do if he was.

—

Sweat slicked and sated, his heavy breaths match your own. “We cannot keep doing this.”

You know this. He knows that you know this. “You say that every time.”

“It isn’t right, Rinn” he continues on as if you have not spoken. It’s beginning to sound like he’s at confession. “He is... _miserably_ in love with you.”

“He cares deeply for us both,” you counter. You will not shoulder this burdensome guilt alone. “And we, him.”

“And yet—” he snarls, before he strangles on his words. A mirthless laugh tickles the skin of your neck, and he shakes his head. “And yet you continue to tempt me. Why? And seven hells, why do I keep bloody answering?”

You scoff. 

You are not some dread wyrm. You do not control him.

But, then again, when instead of speaking you answer only with the press your lips against his, swallowing his doubt and whatever scrap of self control he had wrested back— 

It feels a little like you’re trying.

—

You are not supposed to be in the city until tomorrow, but you cannot bear to sleep another night in the hovel that is the Forgotten Knight. So you knock on the door at Fortemps Manor, and ask for quarter. Count Edmont is as kind and welcoming as always. 

It is home, in its own way, and for that you are ever grateful. But you still have trouble looking the Count in the eye after what you did. 

Or rather, what you didn’t. 

You’re getting better at hiding it, though, and he’s getting better at not pointing it out.

(Even still, you cannot help but avert your gaze from your dear friend’s portrait when you pass it by on the way to your room. Some things just take more time than others.) 

—

You are asleep when the window to your borrowed room begins to rattle, but you awake at the sound of boots hitting hardwood.

“ _Quiet_ ,” he barks in response to the sound of alarm you make upon seeing a figure in your quarters. “Fury, you’ll wake the whole swiving household.”

You recoil, taken aback. As if you are the only one at fault in this situation. 

It’s becoming a bit of a theme.

Mercifully, he does not dally on getting to his point. “When are you to see our mutual friend?”

Ah. 

“On the morrow, I hope.” He bristles. “But he is ever unpredictable, with— I’m sorry, why have you snuck into my room like a thief to ask me this?”

There is a pregnant pause, and you think maybe he doesn’t know. Or doesn’t want to know. 

So you guess. Or maybe just change the subject. Whatever works. “Do you wish for me to pass on your regards?”

He snaps, “ _No._ Say naught of me,” and it is not up for debate. 

You debate anyway. “Not even to let him know you are in good health?” Another _no_ is barked your way. You grow frustrated. “Fury, Estinien, he cares for you dearly and you let him go months with no word of your condition. It’s cruel.”

“ _Cruel_ ,” he parrots derisively, shaking his head. He wanders with his back towards you, hands on his hips, before he turns once again. The look on his face wars with itself. “My answer remains. Do not make me repeat myself.”

You have no desire to argue further; sleep still rattles in your skull, tempting you back. “Twelve, hold your temper. Worry not; I will bite my tongue. But then answer me this — if not for that purpose, why are you here?”

Quiet settles around the two of you. He still has no answer. 

But you do not make him leave.

—

Lucia looks you over like she can smell the deception on you, and even though you exceed her in height you feel catastrophically small in her presence.

But if she makes any realization, she says nothing of it. Just makes polite small talk while you wait, and then tips her head towards the door to Aymeric’s office once the current occupants make their exit. “Go on, then.”

And so you do.

—

You feel a little like you’re on display — or on trial — stood in front of his desk like you are.

But he is kind, and relieves you soon enough; rises, walks out from behind his desk, takes your hands, and tells you how desperately he has missed the feel of them in his.

“I imagine House Fortemps has provided you with all necessary accommodation for your stay in Ishgard,” he presumes, though you recognize the lilt at the end, the ghost of a question.

You nod. “Of course. But I am not beholden to their hospitality. If I am welcomed elsewhere, it would be discourteous to refuse, would it not?”

His grip on your fingers flutters tighter, and he sighs in misplaced relief.

It seems you are welcomed.

—

Being within Borel Manor again brings you a great comfort that you absolutely do not deserve.

The birch syrup on his tongue is sweet against the bitter taste on yours.

—

Daylight breaks, and you awake to the feel of the Lord Commander of Our Knights Most Heavenly running calloused, tender, _miserably-in-love_ fingertips over the razored marks on the skin of your ribs left by his Azure Dragoon, unveiled and put on display by the warm light of morning.

He says nothing, not at first. And you say nothing, because you do not have to. The quietness of the room as your breathing goes still is as much an answer as shouting it out the window. 

But the silence does, eventually, break.

“Fear not some manner of... _wrath_ , from me,” he reassures, spitting the word in distaste — it is as if he is appalled you would consider such a thing of him. Perhaps you would likewise be appalled he thinks you would believe it of him, had you any amount of high ground left upon which to stand. “It is impossible for me to maintain any measure of anger towards either of you; well you both know this.”

_Well you both know._

_Well you both take advantage._

You cannot even look at him, the coward you are. “Aymeric, I.. ,” you begin, but guilt ties your tongue, and you lose your words.

Thankfully, he rarely cannot find his. “You need not grovel. Full glad am I to know he is hale and hearty. And...and full glad I am to have you here by my side.”

The shattering of something inside you is enough to bring you to tears, and even if he does not ask for it, you mutter an apology against his skin all the same.

—

The sweetness on his tongue has faded; the taste of you is all that lingers. You know he would contend they are one and the same, were you to argue it.

Not that you like to argue with him. It’s just that you don’t remember the last time you held any sweetness in you. 

But, as it turns out, you likewise are too miserably in love to disagree.

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV: you're too stupid to make an Ishgardian sandwich so instead you're just miserable.
> 
> Didn't take long for that rating to change huh. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading!!


	4. Prompt: Ferality (WoL)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a while since she’s felt so beastly. She tries to recall if it’s a feeling she likes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for mild violence/blood

The creature falls with an arresting _thud,_ sending a wave of dusty pollen and flower petals billowing, and atop its stilled form is a battered and bruised Keeper, breathing heavy.

She must be quite a sight, she figures. It’s been a while since she’s felt so beastly.

She tries to recall if it’s a feeling she likes.

“Menphina preserve,” Orora groans, exhausted. She slides off the creature’s back to the ground, leaning her own back against the furred hide as she slumps to sit. Far too long has it been since she’s been on a hunt such as this alone — she is reminded of her days deep in the Shroud, before she decided to pursue something a little less violent.

A lot of good that did her in the end, she thinks. Strange how things move in circles.

Not that this thing ever would be again. Moving in circles, that is -- it had been all over Lakeland in fact, frightening farmers while it decimated their crops underfoot and under-mouth. She never much delighted in taking the lives of creatures living their own for the sport of it, but at a certain point she figures it becomes self defense.

She mumbles, "Sorry, mate," to the beast nonetheless. She's honestly surprised this was a mark at all -- had anyone but her come out to deal with this thing, she isn't sure they would have been so lucky.

_I should ask for more,_ she thinks wistfully, before she squashes her greed. It's not as if she needs the coin.

_It's the principle._

Well, on principle she _should_ be doing this for free, right? That's what she does, isn't it? Fixes everything for the joy of doing it?

_That it sure is. And how does that feel right now?_

She sighs. It feels like a sore back, and a headache if she argues with herself any further.

She scrubs a hand down her face, ending the discussion.

Then, stops.

Then, looks at her hand — and whatever amalgamation of blood and mud is covering it.

_Gods. Damnit._

“I’m asking for more,” she revises petulantly, pulling her shirt up to try and wipe the muck from her face. She is only marginally successful, and now her shirt is even more ruined. "I've the right to, don't I?"

Silence answers.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out the hunt bill, studying the reward. Criminally low. Insulting. “They truly think this a fair reward for felling such a beast?”

Her answer this time is a whipping wind, blowing her hair into the sticky mess that is her face.

She steams like a kettle, and part of her feels like it's won. She's trying to figure out if that's a feeling she likes. “I’m asking for more."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give! Orora! more! nut sacks!
> 
> Thank you for reading :)


	5. Prompt: Festival (WoL & Ryne)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stillness of the dead air is a deafening distraction. But eventually, she remembers. 
> 
> 5.4 Eden Spoilers

Their ejection from Eden is as efficient as it is violent. 

The two of them fall from the Ascian’s portals like refuse. Where Ryne lands the Warrior is unsure, but Orora herself lands ungracefully, hard on her shoulder, face crashing into the sandy earth. The taste of blood and dirt mingles in her mouth, pairing poorly with the sour words for Mitron left to sit on her tongue.

She swallows them down; saves them for later.

The stillness and silence of the Empty is unsettling, even moreso by the fact the Warrior expects a cry from Ryne; something along the lines of a concerned ‘ _Ora! Are you all right?’_ like the sound of a kit wailing so you know it’s survived the birth. 

But she does not hear it.

“Ryne?” Orora calls out, lifting herself to a sitting position and looking around the area. The light of day is blinding after the dark of Eden, and it takes her eyes a moment to adjust.

 _Nothing. Nothing._ Then—

She rises, and rushes to Ryne’s side where the young woman sits in the dust and dirt, legs splayed, staring off towards the towering Sin Eater to the north.

“Sh-she’s gone,” Ryne stutters in disbelief. She still has not turned to look at Orora, despite the Warrior putting one hand on her shoulder and the other on her arm to turn her. 

“No she isn’t,” Orora declares, as confident as she would be announcing to the sky whether the sun shines or if it rains. “It’s not forever.”

The young woman finally shifts her gaze to look at the Warrior, expression twitching in recognition. “But he just _took_ her. She just _disappeared_ , like she— like she was—”

Ryne’s words strangle in her throat. She is breathing fast now, each inhale a gulping, shallow thing, and her eyes shift from unfocused to frenetic, dancing across Orora’s face and then off into the distance towards Eden again. Her hand goes to her chest and her fingernails claw at the fabric as if she means to grab her own heart; on occasion she speaks, but it is not intelligible, a mere train of thought jumping from conclusion to conclusion with no real discernible path between them. 

Panic. Utter and consuming panic. It is something Orora knows intimately, and hopes that she remembers being on the other side well enough to help her friend.

“Ryne,” Orora interrupts the muttering, but it is as if she said nothing at all. Louder, she repeats: “Ryne, please…”

It is as if shouting into to the wind.

And so she grabs the young woman’s chin, and forces her to look. 

The surprise on her face is heartbreaking. 

“Ryne, look at me.”

Silence, as the young Oracle sits frozen, staring at the Warrior like an animal set for slaughter.

“Ryne, you need to—” 

Orora pauses. _She needs to what? Calm down? What will saying that accomplish? Surely she knows that. That isn’t going to help._

 _Think faster_. What would her mother always do for her?

The stillness of the dead air is a deafening distraction. But eventually, she remembers. 

“Oh! Ryne. Your festival. You need to tell me about your festival.”

Ryne looks appalled at the question. “My— my _festival_? Why are you asking about that at a time like th—”

“Because you didn’t tell me anything!” Orora counters, maudlin in her offense. Her hand slides from Ryne’s chin to rest on the young woman’s shoulder as her gaze becomes more focused. “You brought it up, and then you didn’t share a single detail. I’m starting to think you don’t want me to come.”

The dismayed expression turns to shock. “What!? Why would you ever think that?” 

Orora continues to pout. “Well, you never properly invited me—” 

“Of course you’re you’re invited, you numpty!” Ryne interrupts, incensed, and Orora does not even bother to conceal the bark of a laugh that ridiculous insult causes. Ryne shares in her laughter after a moment, breaking through the wetness in her voice. “We— we _both_ want you to come.” 

Ryne’s pulse has begun to even out, and her breathing along with it. 

“Fine, all right. I’m sorry,” Orora responds, running her hand down Ryne’s arm. “You know I don’t pick up well on subtleties.”

Ryne shakes her head and chuckles. “I’m sorry too; I’d forgotten.” A pause. “But of course you... of course. It wouldn’t be the same without you there. You’re so very important to me and— and to—”

“We’ll do whatever it takes, all right?” The Warrior responds, tone resolute. She will allow no argument, and Ryne looks not set to make one. “We’ll get her back.”

A tear slides down Ryne’s cheek, streaking through the dust. “I know she’s fighting. I…” her hand goes to her chest, softer now, fingertips massaging where fingernails had earlier clawed. “I can feel it. She’s strong. We only need reach her in time.”

“Then time we can ill afford to waste,” Orora declares as she stands, bringing Ryne up with her. She wipes a bit of dirt off the young woman’s white dress, and wipes the tear from her cheek. “You have a party to set up, after all. You’ve already invited me, and I’ll be very cross if I come all the way from the Source and there’s naught for me to attend.”

Ryne’s smile is gentle and grateful. “We wouldn’t dare disappoint.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ryne can have little a panic attack when the literal last person she has left on the First is taken from her. As a treat.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Also sorry if anyone feltspoiled, I realized after I posted I should have added that warning, and then Ao3 crashed as I was editing to add the warning and didn't come up before I went to bed :c


	6. Prompt: Awakening (WoL/G'raha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She already crossed one threshold unscathed. What’s another?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw food mention; 5.3 spoilers

The door the the Rising Stones’ larder stands outlined with flickering light for the fourth night in a row, but tonight is the first time she feels bold enough to cross its threshold.

And pushing the door open with quiet precision, she finds exactly what she expected.

“Can’t sleep?”

The subject of her question startles, russet fur standing on end down his tail. In one hand is a sizeable chunk of bread ripped straight from the loaf; which she is not certain, but based on its airiness and the room’s general quality of smell, she assumes it not their receptionist’s latest fascination.

“Ah,” G’raha responds, calming once he ascertains the identity of his late night interrupter. With a sheepish smile he holds up his conquest. “It seems you’ve caught me br—” he clips the word, immediately regretful, “...bread-handed.”

Orora looks pained. “That was really quite bad, and you knew it.”

“And I said it anyway, yes,” he commiserates. He other hand goes to tear a small chunk of the loaf from the larger. Crumbs rain on the floor below him. “I shall blame my diminished faculties on my lack of sleep. And hunger.”

Fully within the room now, she walks towards him. He holds out the bread, and she rips a piece off for herself; more crumbs. Tataru is going to kill them. “This is what, night four?”

He laughs it off, but looks nonplussed. He pops the bite of bread into his mouth to stall, and speaks around it when he finally does. “Are you following me around? Surely you have more interesting prey to stalk.”

She wanders away from his person and sits herself upon the countertop, though they are hardly any further apart. “And what if I am?” 

He blinks. “I…”

She cuts him off to save him the strain. “Calm down. No, G’raha, I’m not following you. I’m just usually awake around this time, and so I know who else is too.” A beat. “Which is usually no one.” 

“Of course,” he reasons with a nod. A Keeper is still a Keeper, even when she is the Warrior of Light. “I suppose you have the right of it, then, though I dare hope I will be able to lessen my mid-night trips once I…”

The phrase lingers in the air before he completes it wordlessly, a shrug with one shoulder as punctuation.

Orora smiles in understanding; or at least, in sympathy. Well aware she is of his difficulties with being back on the Source, and being back within his old self — two states of being that, although original to him, hardly make up the largest chapter of his life. It is not something he seems overly keen to discuss at length, though whether out of selflessness, shame, or simply not wanting to show frailty she is unsure. On the occasions she has tried, he seems grateful for her consideration, but dismissive of her concern and eager to change the subject.

She normally does not push it; there are typically other things to be done, and it can wait. But the hour is late and unbothered, and this night leaves neither of them with more burdensome tasks. Besides, she already crossed one threshold unscathed. What’s another?

“Maybe— Can I help?”

He clears his throat. “Help?”

Her midnight black tail wraps to lay on her lap as her fingers idly play at the fur. “Yes, help. You know, what a person might offer to do when someone they care for is in need of it.”

His expression flickers through a number of stages before he regains control of his thoughts.

“My friend,” he prefaces, and he’d might as well not even continue because she knows exactly where this is going, “the last thing you need worry yourself with is whether an old man is sleeping properly, as kind as it is that you do. 'Tis not so large a difficulty I cannot overcome it.”

She shouldn’t push it. It isn’t her business.

Except—  it kind of is, actually. 

And she really doesn’t feel like seeing this for a night five.

“You’re not old,” she points out, looking him up and down with a wave of her hand to match it. “Not anymore. So we can just stop using that excuse. And  _ honestly _ — do you really imagine my worry dissipates the moment you command it to?”

He has the good grace to look abashed, ears lowering, and silently lets her continue.

“I offer to help because I wish to. If it were burdensome to me, I would not.” She drops her tail and jumps back onto her feet, brushing crumbs from her lap. “You do not have to accept it, but I offer it nonetheless.”

The din of the Rising Stones, of Revenant’s Toll — ever awake, as the two of them — is a hum in the background as they look at one another, each at near equal height to the other. She won’t call it a standoff, because it isn’t — she will back down if he asks. But she’s going to make him ask.

Okay, maybe it is a bit of a standoff.

But thankfully, he does not ask. 

“You are right, of course,” he relents with a sigh. He cracks another section of bread off, crumbs fluttering, his gaze following them. “I apologize. In my efforts to be selfless and considerate of your time, I have instead managed to do the opposite.”

A triumphant smile tugs at her mouth, but she keeps it more or less contained.

“It’s all right,” she forgives, brushing a bit of invisible lint off his shoulder. The way he stills at her touch goes not unnoticed. “One step at a time, hm?”

He nods, and smiles. Holds out the bread for her to take another piece. “Ever forward.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work is a beast and this got long but I was too tired to properly trim it down and...finish it lol, so there will most assuredly be a part two.
> 
> Thank you for reading :D


	7. Prompt: Starlight (WoL & Alisaie, ft. G'raha & Alphinaud)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She knows Alisaie is just trying to rile her up. Them up. Whatever.
> 
> And it works, of course. Every bloody time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: post 5.3 timeline and extreme dunking

Three Scions sit across from the Warrior, cross legged and attentive to various degrees. The sun has all but set, and stars begin to flicker into view.

“You don’t have to do anything special, all right?” Orora explains. “Just tell me how it feels.”

A maudlin sigh comes from participant one. “That’s all?”

Good start.

“I believe this is more for the benefit of our friend than ourselves, Alisaie,” participant two chides diplomatically, straight backed like a model student. “Not everything has to be a competition. Though I’m certain your enthusiasm is appreciated.”

“Oh you’re certain, are you?,” his sister snaps back, stubborn. “All I’m saying is that we could stand to raise the stakes a little.” Her attention turns back to Orora, expression somewhere between impish and pleading. “It would be fun, wouldn’t it?”

Orora already has a set of three cards charged and spread in front of her. They waver, aether beginning to dissipate, when her attention is pulled. “I’m sorry, what?”

Participant three, tawny ears flicking to follow the conversation, attempts to mediate. “I believe Alisaie wishes to make a game of it; I am not certain Alphinaud is of similar aspiration, though I am sure we all would participate if you desired it as well.”

“I…” Orora considers, switching focus; the cards disperse fully in her inattention. She sighs. “Fine.”

Alisaie smiles and punches her brother in the shoulder. He groans, and scoots closer to G’raha.

Orora murmurs a few words and resets her deck. She had called them here to help make sure she was casting the cards correctly — conjury and thaumaturgy she understands, but the intricacies of celestial astrology are still a new practice to her, as much as she has found a knack for it. She is just not certain how well a game can be played when the whole point of the exercise was to ascertain whether she can follow the rules at all.

But, “Just — guess the card, I suppose, then. While simultaneously telling me how you feel.”

Despite it being her suggestion, Alisaie looks cross. “Is that it? Not, I don’t know, ‘see who utilizes the effect most skillfully’?” she offers, eager at her own idea.

“How am I to judge that fairly?” Orora counters, brows furrowed. Her poor deck begins to waver once more, and her tail flicks impatiently. “And frankly Alisaie, after that Spear incident, I’d rather you stay seated.”

The young mage gasps; clearly the memory of getting said card mid fight, unpracticed with its hastening effect, is still a sore subject. "You said you wouldn't bring that— "

“Well, I think it’s a capital idea!” Alphinaud interjects, energetically desperate to change the subject. “You cast the card, we will guess its suit based on the effect, and see who is the most accurate. Is that our game?”

G’raha nods in accord with Alphinaud.

“Well of course _you_ agree,” Alisaie responds to G’raha’s nod; his ears pin back, though he looks unsure as to why she has singled him out. With a rogueish little look between the two miqo'te, she continues, smile tugging at the corner of her mouth: “You’re far more familiar with them than us. We _all_ know she favors you.” She then pauses, like the devil she is. “For doling out cards, of course. What with your many varied talents, you’re a perfect target.”

She isn’t wrong. “I give out cards equally as needed, you know this.”

Alisaie rolls her eyes, but considering both Orora and G’raha now sport blushes of varying degrees, she appears satisfied. “Whatever. It will make my success all the sweeter, winning at a handicap.” 

G’raha looks at no one. Alphinaud simply looks lost.

“ _Shall we?_ ” Orora interjects, terse. For a third time, she summons her deck, and gives none of them the time to say more.

Three cards laid out, drawn one by one.

First card — the Bole, to fortify. With a flick of her wrist, a trail of starlight following her every gesture, she casts the card to G’raha.

When it takes him a moment, Orora reaches out and pinches his arm; he barely notices. “Ah — the...Bole, is it, then?

She nods with a little smile. His thumb rubs idly over the skin she mandhandled. “Very good. One point for our newest Scion.”

Second — the Ewer, to refresh. To Alphinaud.

He looks insufferably smug almost immediately. “One with any affinity to magic could certainly not mistake that effect for another. The Ewer, of course.”

Orora hums. “And a point for Alphinaud as well.” Her gaze flicks to Alisaie. “Tough race.”

The red mage hums with energy. “Don’t call it yet.”

Third — the Spear.

Orora bites back a smile. Fate certainly has twisted in her favor today.

To Alisaie it goes.

“Oh— gods,” Orora blurts immediately after casting the card; she wipes away the rest of the deck, and stands. “I completely forgot I set a meeting with Y’shtola. We can finish this later, yes? She’ll have my hide if I’m late.”

A universal look of understanding is cast her way.

“Actually,” she continues, looking towards Alisaie, “you will likely benefit from this as well. Come along with me?”

Without thought — or perhaps simply with the thought of accompanying the Warrior — Alisaie springs up. 

Walks forward. 

And subsequently trips over her unexpectedly accelerated feet.

There is a deafening, heavy silence that follows.

Then, a small chorus of _All you all right?_ 's from the two Scions still seated.

Then, laughter, from the only one brave enough to do so.

“Ha ha," Alisaie mutters, cheek against the cool stone. Her sigh is so long she appears to deflate. "There is no meeting, is there?”

Orora walks over to her and taps her side with her foot. “There is not.”

The elezen sighs. “I suppose I deserve that.” A beat. “...the Spear.”

“Correct!” Orora responds excitedly, clapping her hands. “Very good. A three way tie! Though, since I cast all of the cards correctly, perhaps I am actually the winner, hm?”

Alisaie groans and looks like she would have rather lost.

“Either way, you all are so very talented,” Orora continues, looking between the three of them. “A bit useless at helping me at what I asked, mind, but Alphinaud was right: I do appreciate the enthusiasm.”

The stars shimmer still above them, but only for a moment — soon, the miasma of Mor Dhona settles in, and they are all but blotted from the sky. 

Later, then, still applies.

“Come along, then,” she insists, reaching down to help the waylaid mage to her feet. “And don’t be cross.”

“I’ll be cross all I like,” Alisaie grouses, brushing dirt off her pants. Her gaze flicks up to meet the Warrior’s, and once again, that wicked smile flashes across her face. “Though, you could make it up to me with a little competition, perhaps?”

“Competition,” she responds flatly, raising an eyebrow. She isn’t sure why she’s surprised. “More than you’ve already thrust upon me?”

“Yes.” The young mage holds out both hands, one swirling with the wind of white, and the other with the thunder of black. “You know, perhaps something a bit more my style?”

“Hmm,” Orora considers; she isn’t exactly unpracticed in red magic, and Alisaie knows this. On the other hand, “You probably have a better chance of winning against him, you know.”

She looks towards G’raha, who appears a mix between betrayed and happy to be included.

Alisaie shoots a look towards her protege. “If you're scared to go it alone, he can come.” A beat. Another wicked smile. “I’m sure you’d like that.”

Orora isn’t sure who that was directed towards. Nor if it matters. She knows Alisaie is just trying to rile her up. Them up. Whatever.

And it works, of course. Every bloody time.

“All right, you little witch,” the Warrior responds with a wry half smile, flaring her own magic in response, stone dancing among licking flames. “Let’s see what you've got.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Children, amirite.
> 
> Yes I used the old ast card properties. Yes I just made up how and why the cards just go poof when you use them in combat. What are you, a cop?
> 
> Also who thought coming back to work after being gone for two weeks and having to catch up on two weeks of work in four days might make it hard to keep up with these?? Was it me? Absolutely not. I'll do some makeup this weekend lol. Or I won't. Let's find out!
> 
> As always, thanks for giving it a read and let me know what you think <3


	8. Prompt: Reaper (f!WoL)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the fourth night in a row this has happened, and she still is not sure what she is reaching for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: death mention, blood mention | werlyt 5.4 story spoilers

Sleep only just overtakes her before she starts back awake, gasping for air and grasping for purchase. It is the fourth night in a row this has happened, and she still is not sure what she is reaching for.

After moments pass and her heartbeat slows, she lets out a sigh and scrubs a hand down her face. Her lifestyle has never leant itself to restful nights, and her warring mind wouldn’t allow even if it did. She is used to that. But this is something different, something that sits heavy in her chest like a stone. It reminds her of the light, if she’s honest. Of how it churned, and ached, and pressed against her ribs like some obscene gravid mockery. She still dreams about it — still wakes clawing at her chest and gut trying to pull it out, and has the silvery scars and scratches to prove it.

But it isn’t the light. It isn’t even fear of the light. It’s buildings ablaze and jewel toned weapons. It’s lavender eyes, and lavender hair. It’s ivory scales, and the smell of them burning, and the feel of them crumbling between her fingertips like charcoaled wood, and the black soot staining her hands, and —

_Woe betide indeed, hero._

A sob escapes her before she can stop it. She bites her hand to keep it from spreading. 

The blood that seeps from the indents mixes well with all the rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Werlyt is a train wreck but I can see certain WoL feeling a little guilty after being paraded around to meet all of the friends and family of the people they've been deleting one by one so here's an emo little blurb about it.
> 
> Sorry for the weenie hut jr. sized fill.
> 
> Thanks for reading tho <3


	9. Prompt: Tempering (WoL/Estinien | NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations are easier, when each can recognize when the other is lying to themselves.
> 
> And infinitely harder, all the same. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *stumbles in 15 days late with 3600 words* It's fine.
> 
> f!wol/Estinien, implied f!wol/Estinien/Aymeric. CW: for sexual content & tobacco use. I would deem it "lightly explicit" but I'm not sure I'm the best judge so I'll bop up the rating to be safe.
> 
> Set post 5.1, nebulously. It doesn't spoil anything past that, anyway.

The flickering of candlelight is radiant warmth, breaking through the miasmic violet of Mor Dhona cast across them like a bruise.

“You know I bloody hate those things.”

Rinn turns to face the complaint-made-man next to her, though his gaze remains fixed on the ceiling. Between her lips hangs the cigarette she has just finished rolling and lighting, ember bright and burning — and the object of his displeasure. It’s an unbecoming habit, sure. But it is far from her most dangerous, and as of late, one of her few remaining comforts. 

Another, of course, being the one griping about the first. “You don’t have to stay.”

Estinien grunts, and dismisses her dismissal. Conversations are easier, when each can recognize when the other is lying to themselves.

And infinitely harder, all the same. 

Despite his complaints, he lets her smoke in peace for a time. And while she is grateful for the reprise, she can tell something is burning at the tip of his tongue. It has been since he walked into the room, and though he decided on more pleasurable pursuits to start — and she hardly cared to dissent — it still hangs in the air despite the conclusion of such affairs, and does nothing but keep her on perpetual knife’s edge.

She takes a drag, and blows it away from his face. And he wonders why she needs these things.

Inevitably, though, he finds his nerve. Or the end of his patience. 

“Have you been to Ishgard since— ” 

“No,” she cuts him off. At least she got a drag or two in before he went for the throat. “I will. I promise. But, no.”

He is wholly unsatisfied, and she doesn’t blame him. She doesn’t believe herself either. “That’s a shite answer.”

“Well it’s a shite question,” she snaps, defensive. And unfair. Because it isn’t, really. A shite question, that is. It’s a fair question. She just doesn’t want to answer it. “And my business, besides.”

“Nay, _not_ just yours,” he grits in reprimand, pointing in emphasis before his hand falls heavy back against the bed.

No. Not just hers.

But it’s more than that, and he knows. Rinn gestures towards herself, though as he thoroughly explored her well enough earlier, he cannot feign ignorance. “Surely you can see why I can’t.”

Not that it needs pointed out. It is impossible to miss the light-tempered parts of her: hair, bleached bone bright, with only the newly grown roots showing her natural brown; eyes, nearly black before, faded to bloody amber; skin, still marred with lingering stains of the alabaster white it was to become, paired with the new and plentiful scars and marks of battle seared across her like brands.

But despite the evidence before him, he answers flatly: “No.” 

She scoffs at his obstinance. “Honestly—”

“I don’t,” he reaffirms, blunt. He props himself up on his elbows to better look her in the eye, sheet drifting to settle at his waist. “Apart from—” 

“Estinien—”

“—Apart from your _vanity_ ,” he continues over her, marching past her attempted excuses.

“ _Vanity_?” she repeats, dumbfounded. His belittling insult surprises her enough that she forgets the cigarette in her hand, and ash falls on her bare chest. The heat does not burn, but it startles her voice back to her. “You cannot possibly,” she brusquely responds, brushing the slag from her chest; it leaves grey, sooty streaks, which she then works to rub away, “think it ordinary vanity that troubles me so.”

Clearly, he does. “Then tell me what it is, if not that.”

“It—” she begins. Then, falters. 

She takes a heavy drag to stall, letting the smoke curl from her mouth to be inhaled once more through her nose — she knows Estinien likes the parlour trick if not that habit, so she figures it will keep him occupied while she thinks. Because she honestly knows not what to say — it does not _feel_ like pride keeping her locked away like some feral creature, unwilling to be seen. It cannot be so trivial, because it does not feel so trivial. It feels consuming; it devours her every thought. But when she thinks about it — really tries to puzzle out her motivations — she lacks the words to describe it otherwise.

The pleased _hmph_ he makes at her silence is humiliating and infuriating at once.

“Fine,” she concedes, admonished. She folds in on herself, and their arms no longer touch. He notices, glancing at the space between them created by her withdrawal. “Perhaps that is what it is. It feels...different, but—”

“It is,” he acknowledges, and that is a small balm. He shifts closer, and their skin meets again; it’s as much of an apology as she’ll get. “But it’s still a gobshite excuse.”

Her exhale is ragged, and she doesn’t know what he wants to hear. The cigarette is almost done, so she finishes it off and snuffs it out directly on the wood of the end table. She hates this place anyway. “What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing,” he replies irritably, as if it were obvious. “Just stop tormenting the man, for Fury’s sake.”

He speaks of Aymeric, of course. Of the man woefully in love with her as much as she is him — and who she has avoided so completely since stumbling onto the First and drinking her first draught of light that it is a wonder he still holds any torch for her at all.

Estinien continues on. “He is not like you and I. He’s...” he trails off, thinking of the best descriptor for the object of their mutual affection; he sneers when he finds it, though there is fondness in his voice all the same, “ _sensitive,_ with matters such as these. And if he comes to discover that I have seen you and he has not, I fear he will start keening like a widow.”

She huffs a small laugh. “Now who is being cruel?” she murmurs, but it’s flat, and distracted. She knows it is not necessarily his intention, but all that this talking has done is made her feel worse, and her chest feels so tight, her gut churning so viciously, that she starts to wonder if all of the light left her after all.

“Besides, I fear I have been feeling somewhat sensitive myself these days,” she continues in admission, fingers grazing at her chest as if to grab at a necklace that is not there. When she speaks again it is barely a whisper. “I hope you know I do not mean to torment him”

Estinien shifts to sit as she does, back against the headboard. Their shoulders press tight against each other’s, and his fingers ghost at the back of her hand, a gentle suggestion.

She turns her palm up, and lets his hand settle into hers.

Her voice is choked when she speaks. Embarrassing. “But I can barely stand the thought of being seen in Ishgard as I am now, with its endless scrutiny,” she explains. Excuses. Same thing. “Nor can I bear the thought of— of seeing him; of _him_ seeing _me_ as this monstrous thing, and—”

“Ishgard can piss off,” Estinien spits, indignant on her behalf. His thumb rubs circles on the back of her hand, perhaps meant to comfort, but he is too discontent to be gentle. “And you are not a monster. Though you _are_ daft, if you think that or anything else would diminish his affection for you.”

Were that it all as easy for her to believe as for him to say. She sighs, rubbing her hand across her cheek and up through her hair, fingers carding down the strands tipped in white — they match her fingertips, which have yet to fade in any capacity back into normalcy.

She swallows down the bile that rises at the sight of them, and drops her hand. “It feels almost crueler, then, does it not? To force anyone to be seen with such a creature because their affection for it overrides their sense.”

He scrubs a hand down his face. “Twelve above, if you refer to yourself as ‘it’ again...” he warns, frustrated, though to say she hears actual threat in his voice would be a laugh. “And stop forcing me to belabor my point. He does not care. He has kept me around, after all, lest you have forgotten my spell of beastliness in your conquest of greater prey.”

A memory of bellowing roars and wings and terrible red eyes crosses her vision; of him slumped and all but dead on the ground by her hand.

“I could never forget,” she whispers soberly, gaze tilting from his to trace the scars branded across his body like scales, drifting along the curves of him like the tail of the wyrm itself. Grim demonstrations, not unlike her own, of what a surfeit of foreign aether — what a violating possession — leaves upon a person even after its departure.

She reaches with her free hand to run her fingertips along the lines of them, before flicking her gaze back to his impassive face. “I was just never under the impression that they bothered you.”

He cannot meet her eyes, and looks all the more bothered for it. “They don’t.”

She probably would have believed him, once.

“Oh, bugger off with that look you’ve got on,” he snaps. She didn’t even realize she was wearing so offensive of one. “And save your pity; I’ve no want for it.”

She does not pity him. “It isn’t that.”

The muscles in his jaw twitch, and he gives no further response.

In their mutual silence she settles closer, pressing her chest against his side and wrapping her arm around his torso. Being this close, he utterly surrounds her — it’s funny, how much she did not realize she had forgotten of him in his absence: the slope of his nose, and the curve of his mouth; the timbre of his voice, even, and scent of him, filling her lungs.

Oh — and his bothersome, neverending stubbornness. 

“You will go to Ishgard,” he declares, breaking the fleeting, comfortable silence. 

This argument is going in circles. “I will—”

He presses his fingers against her lips to silence her. “And if you cannot find your nerve to go alone, then... ” — he pauses, but only for a breath — “then I will go with you.”

She blinks, pulling back to properly look at him, speaking against his fingers. “Go with me?”

“Yes. _Go_ _with_ you,” he clarifies, gruff, as if it were a great hardship to do so. His hand parts from her lips, gesturing as he speaks — “ _Accompany_ you, _escort_ you. Need you that I find a fourth term?” — before falling back against the mattress. 

Her heart clatters against her ribcage, pressed against his. Surely he can feel it.

“If you desire it,” he clarifies with sudden apprehension of her silent regard. 

“If I desire it…” she muses in echo. There is little she would desire more. “Of course I do. You merely surprised me, that’s all.”

He lets out a breath she had not noticed he was holding. “Then it is settled.”

“Aye,” Rinn responds absently, still processing the unexpected offer. For all three of them to spend time together is not inherently usual, but it is regrettably rare for their schedules to align, to say nothing of the challenges posed by the capricious nature, and discretion desired, by the more secretive of their party. For Estinien to travel to Ishgard for no reason other than to accompany her and her shattered nerves is— 

Well. It is generously, uncharacteristically sentimental of him.

She props her head up with her hand, and walks her fingertips across his chest to get him to look at her, wry smile painted on her lips. “So are you to come as my bodyguard, then?”

“More like your spine, it seems,” he corrects, matching her smirk. His head falls to the side to look at her, and his voice affects a knightly tone. “But should my lady find her newly delicate sensibilities in need of guarding, I am ever at her service.”

“How gallant, Ser Dragoon,” she muses, running her thumb along the line of his collarbone. Laughs a little in disbelief, before continuing. “I still cannot believe you are willingly offering to walk into Borel Manor with me. You know you will not be able to simply turn around and walk right back out once you are in.”

“I do as I please,” he asserts. 

She continues as if he has not spoken. “You may even have to have a conversation or two.”

He snorts. “I am confident Aymeric will speak enough for the both of us.”

“Hm,” she muses. “Even so.”

His brow furrows, impatient. And suspicious. “Get to your point.”

“I just…” she begins, pausing to think. Her thumb trails from the dip in his throat down his sternum, grazing, and it sends a shiver through him. “It is an obvious inconvenience for you, and so I find it rather... _sweet_ of you to do, that’s all.”

He rolls his eyes and slumps into a sigh, playfully nudging her away with his shoulder. “Oh, come off it.”

Half draped across him, his dramatics have little effect. “I mean it,” she insists. And she does. Truly. But she also means to antagonize him, just a little. The feelings are not mutually exclusive. “It’s really quite darling.”

“Pah, ‘ _darling’_ ,” he parrots derisively. Had he hackles, they would be rising, and he is doing his very best to look quite miserable despite a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Save these honeyed words for someone better suited to receive them.”

“I cannot help what you are,” she reasons. “Why, one may even say that—”

“If you keep prattling on like a bleeding poet,” he warns, sitting up further, but there are no teeth in it, despite the snarling, “you can consider the offer rescinded.”

The movement causes her to slide awkwardly, so she backs up to sit fully, legs folded under her. She looks at him knowingly. “You wouldn’t.”

“ _I will do as I please_ ,” he contends, and then shifts as if making to leave. It’s an empty threat. 

That said, she’s not opposed to enacting countermeasures.

“But you won’t,” she asserts calmly, pushing on one shoulder to arrest his movement. In one fluid motion she completes the detention by shifting astride him, one knee on either side of his hips, as her hands move from his shoulders to settle on his chest, fingernails scratching lightly. “And you know why not?”

“No,” he groans impatiently, though by the way his hands grip her backside to pull her closer, it seems the source of his impatience has shifted. “But I’m certain you do.”

The friction sets the both of them softly alight; some more noticeably than others. She hums, words drifting as her thoughts become ever increasingly singular. “Because—”

 _Because you love me_ , she means to tease. Intends to make him blush, or stammer — but the words stall on her tongue. It isn’t that there is doubt that he does, at least in his way. Nor her for him, in hers. But for how openly Aymeric shares his affection, between her and Estinien it is something that hangs ever delicately unsaid. Perhaps it is merely their character; or, perhaps, for two so keenly attuned to loss as they are, the thought of voicing such a thing — to make it real, and therefore capable of being thieved away — seems intolerably cruel. And for all her bravado, she finds herself spineless still, unwilling to test the balance further. 

His jaw flexes as he watches her, his grip on her thighs relaxing into gentleness. There is an aching fondness in his gaze mirroring that of her own heart that she cannot help but wilt into; in the same way she cannot say her words and yet he seems to have understood them, so she feels fluency in the radiating affection from him.

It’s a peculiar thing, being in love. One day, she thinks she might like to tell him all about it.

“I take back what I said before,” Estinien says to break the silence, shifting his hips to settle her more agreeably. One hand slides up her thigh and waist to splay across her lower back — a suggestion to move closer to which she eagerly complies — while the other brushes against her cheek, pushing her hair behind her ear before settling against the join of her shoulder.

“Oh?” Rinn asks, thumbs grazing along the scarred, serpentine skin over his ribs. She is not entirely sure to what he refers, though close as they are now, she’s not sure she cares; a feeling confirmed, verily, when his hand on her back presses firmer still as the other returns the way it came, trailing between the valley of her breasts and down the plane of her stomach to dip, with roguish alacrity, between the crux of her thighs.

“Indeed,” he answers nonetheless, in time with her breathy gasp, and the rumbling pitch of it reminds her of the smoke spilling from her lips before, caught in their lungs. “You _are_ monstrous.”

The answer is so ridiculously unexpected that she barks a laugh, though it stutters in time with the movement of his hand as he endeavors to lift her passions to match his own. “Arse,” she murmurs, dipping her head to kiss the underside of his jaw before turning to drag her teeth against his throat, nipping at the skin before soothing it with her tongue and mouth.

“ _Ah_ , and there you prove my point” he tuts, though does nothing to discourage her actions. If anything it sets him further alight; she can hear it in his voice, the way it tenses and growls. “You wicked, wild creature.”

For some reason it feels tender, coming from him.

His hand leaves her — and she whines, wretched, seeking purchase. His laughter, deep in his chest, rumbles equally resonant in hers. “Like some beastman’s god, you are,” he carries on, both hands setting themselves under her thighs, intent on tilting her back to lay flat. “Brought about by my hungry desire and set to enthrall me against my will.”

She concedes to his request, more or less, leaning back but staying propped up on her elbows, canted towards him. He pauses forward motion to run his fingertips up the back of her thighs, teasing and featherlight, gazing down at her with brazen and unapologetic want.

It is suffocating, the lack of him near her; she gasps for his touch, hands reaching. Still, it is a strange comfort, to be perceived this way; to be so devoured, even as she is.

“And what do people like us—” he begins, trailing off in delicious distraction. He shifts the position of his hands on her thighs, sliding them to the crook of her knee and tugging her towards him, pulling her arms from under her and dropping her spine flat against the mattress. As fast as befits his trade he is upon her, though the way he stays shored above her, tauntingly close, drives her to whimpering frustration. She grasps for what she can to pull him towards her, legs wrapping around his waist, but although she is strong, so is he. “ — do with beasts such as you?

A laugh bubbles up from her chest, bright and heady. “You seek to tame me, Azure Dragoon?” she asks. Rakes her fingernails down his chest hard enough to leave angry red lines. The groan he makes is just as beastly as anything he claims of her. “Break me like some feral creature?”

“Aye,” he growls, leaning in. She can feel his quickening breaths against her cheek, and it makes her own falter and skip. “Perhaps that will finally shatter this tempering upon me.”

The small furrow in her brow is the only part of her that seems unsure; that falters in their banter. "You wouldn't," she begins, weaker than she means. She clears her throat, and settles her expression into something more wry. "Couldn't." 

He notices her flash of insecurity, and his own expression falters in kind. "Nay, perhaps not," he concedes, leaning to brush his nose against her cheek before pressing a tender kiss against it; then, at the edge of her mouth; then, he captures her lips, slow and devouring. His hair curtains around them in silver cascades, and she is utterly consumed. 

Then, he concedes further. Surrenders, really — and in a sweeping, untimid motion, he lowers, laying upon her like a wave: lips to her neck, fevered; bare chest against her own, wyrmskinned against forgiven; hands, first in her hair, then at her waist, then trailing again back behind her thighs, grasping, shifting her angle, and then, finally, centers aligned— 

It is indecent, the sound she makes.

In an effort to speak a language she understands, he moans in kind, shameless. Then, finds his tongue, and speaks against her ear so close it is as if in her skull, like a whisper to a prophet. "But by your leave, I plan to continue on this fool's errand all the same." 

_Very well_ , she thinks. Says, maybe — she knows she speaks, anyway, but she’s not entirely sure what she _says_ when he punctuates his request by moving against and within her, languid and teasing and testing. But with blessed, practiced, fluency of motion— 

He seems to get the idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to part II of my series: elfs talking in bed sandwiched between smut I'm too lazy to write. Now featuring far less overall misery! It's called growth.
> 
> Apart from the word prompt of course, and despite the fact that it strayed quite a bit, I would be remiss to not thank @myki in the book club for their prompt which spurned me to write this thing. ty! ♥ Obviously a lot of headcanon-ing here with the effects of tempering, but it's all in good fun. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed and thank you so much for reading! Leave me a hello if you did, I am very nice I promise :3c


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